


A Better Place

by Calacious



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death mentioned, Character Study, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Movie Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 19:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14654679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Thanos is not a god. He knows this. He is a father, though, and all he's ever wanted to do was make the universe a better place.





	A Better Place

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War
> 
> I watched the movie on Friday, and have been thinking about Thanos ever since. He does make a comment that indicates that he does think of himself as a god - when he said "I am" (reference to Exodus 3:14 for those unfamiliar with the Old Testament, this is where God tells Moses what to say to the Jewish people if they question him; there are a plethora of other Biblical references in the movie as well), but I wanted to explore him as a father in this (even that, arguably, is linked to Biblical references). 
> 
> A line is borrowed from the movie, it is in italics. I am not making a profit through writing this character exploration.

The Infinity Stones are equalizers. Unlike himself, they put all of creation on the same playing field, make them all equally vulnerable. They eliminate half of all life forces, good and evil alike, irrespective of status or familial connection. They aren't evil, or good. They just are.

And now that Thanos has the stones, at great cost to himself and others, he's not sure how to feel. He thought that he'd feel happier, at peace, once he'd achieved his purpose in life.

He doesn't.

Instead, he feels ill at ease.

There is stability in the universe, but his own life lacks stability. His daughters are dead to him, though only one of them is truly dead, and that at his own hands.

He looks at them. Studies their shape and size, the scars and calluses. He's earned the imperfections he finds there, and he feels no shame, not for what they've done. They're strong, steady hands. Hands that, at one point in time, had known how to show mercy. Hands that did not shake when faced with difficult tasks that others would balk at doing. Bringing death, sparing life.

He should never have taken Gamora all those years ago. Should never have spared her young life. Never have raised her as his own. If he hadn't, he wouldn't feel this gaping hole in his heart, an emptiness that even time (now at his disposal) can heal.

He knows, though, that if he'd never met that little girl all those years ago, had he never let her finagle her way into his heart (hardened to all else out of necessity -- his mission in life had to come before all else for the sake of the universe) he'd never have gained the soul stone. Meeting her, loving her, caring for her as though she was his own, had been a necessary evil; a hurt like no other. She was, would always be, the only being he ever loved.

And now he's alone. The universe is more stable than it has ever been with half of the population gone with a simple snap of his fingers. No suffering. No pain. Just gone. It's a mercy that was never visited upon him and his people. A mercy that he wishes didn't make him feel bitter.

_ "You'll never be a god." _ Loki's words echo through time, hit him in the gut, make it twist and roil in a way that he doesn't care for.

"I never wanted to be a god," Thanos says, speaking the words aloud to no one, watching the sunset on the newly cleansed universe. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

He can feel the weight of the souls that his will has killed in the heart he hasn't quite managed to harden again, though it's not for lack of trying. Can feel their loss deeper than anything he's ever felt before, aside from his love for Gamora.

No, he isn't a god. He'll never be a god. He will, however, always be a father, the one who will have to bear the weight of the entire universe on his shoulders. The one entrusted to her care. The one destined to be forever alone, watching the sun set over a horizon not his own.

Balance has always, and will ever come at a cost, and he's the only one who is willing to bear it. The only one who understands the necessity of it, the true cost that it exacts from a single being. A cost that no one before him, and no one after him, will be willing to bear.

In a way, he's thankful that Gamora is no longer around to witness the aftermath of what he’s done. He doesn’t think she’d approve, knows she would not understand why he had to do this.

What he’d missed most about her when she left him the first time were her smiles, the way her tiny hand fit in his much larger hand, her simple trust and faith in him when she'd been younger and believed in him as though he  _ had  _ been a god. He misses those things now. 

Everything had been simpler then. He'd understood his purpose and had not deviated from it, and Gamora, love shining in her eyes, had pointed him toward that goal, unwavering in her faith in him.

That's how he'll remember her now, how he'll stay the course -- her face adorned with a smile, and her simple faith in him, that he'd do as he'd said he'd do. No fear. No anger. No hurt. Just a daughter's faith that her father will make the universe a better place. And isn’t that what every father wants: to make the universe a better place for his children?


End file.
